


Victory

by mezzafredda



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 16:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mezzafredda/pseuds/mezzafredda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bitter defeat, bitter victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Kinda old, still sorta depressing.  
> Many thanks to Reiya Inc. for her help with proofreading the translation from Russian.

A battle won means one step closer to victory. Victory may be cheap, but the BLUs do not usually surrender so easily; this one, however, was excellent.

"Well, more or less excellent," The RED Spy thought to himself, taking a puff at his cigarette as he walked along the corridor, "The outcome was never really in doubt, but... still heart-warming."

"C'mon, fatty! Whaddaya waitin' for?"

The voice was of a young one - and desperate. Spy gave a melancholic sigh, exhaling the smoke out of his nostrils. Where there are winners, there are also losers; It must be an utter disappointment, especially at such a tender age. He felt a sort of sorrowful sympathy for all the young boys whom the BLUs sent to hot spots straight from military schools. They were so jittery and jumpy, the look in their eyes so hectic; partly because of all the energy drinks they were given to make up for the lack of sleep. It was incredibly difficult to sneak up on them from behind, yet it was even harder to run them down. Still, he tried to backstab them with stealth, so that the short agony caused by a knife being stuck deep under the shoulder-blade might only last for a few moments.

"You fat bastard!"

Next there was a scream of fury and pain, followed by the dull sound of continuous kicks. Spy frowned with displeasure and quickened his steps. He often observed that his teammates were excessively cruel, and he tried to suppress their bloodlust, even though it was none of his business. He was not a peacemaker, nor a humanitarian; he was, however, a great specialist in torture, and disdained pointless violence. Young scouts had practically no idea what was inside the briefcases they were supposed to steal, nor were they aware of the further plans. They did not need to be well-informed to penetrate the enemy base through a tiny window, open the gates, maybe shoot a guard or two, and then die running away, trying to guess the way out of the entangled corridors.

"And you too! You're a disgrace to ya uniform!"

His words were indistinct by now and the voice was fading away. Not only his lips were smashed, but he probably had blood inside his lungs. It did not really matter how many of his ribs were broken, as the boy was doomed anyway. Spy stopped in the doorway. He was not at all surprised to see Heavy beating the boy up, yet still he flinched a little as the crude combat boots rammed into the Scout's waist time after time. The Russian mumbled contentedly in his native language while his fellow Soldier, the same dull and brutal type, recounted something he considered to be extremely entertaining, waving his shovel vigorously. The boy cursed bitterly, and spat every now and then, struggling to reach his bat; the two men had a good time kicking him now in the backbone, now in the ribs, now punching him in the guts or stomping on his bony hands wrapped in elastic bandage.

"Ahem... Gentlemen?"

Spy took a swift step forward, fully aware that his appearance would be a surprise and it would be much safer for him to remain in their full view. It took Heavy a good five seconds to turn round, Soldier noticed him a bit faster: he jerked his massive chin up distrustfully and gave Spy a scornful look. But it was Scout who reacted first, arching his back, holding up his head in a burst of the faintest hope, and this frantic glare of his sent shivers down the Frenchman's spine.

There was a woman, a merry widow from the south side of Boston, with the fine blue eyes like this and the same beautifully arched eyebrows. Many a passionate night he had spent with that fascinating lady who, having brought up eight boys, was still attractive, wasp-waisted, very petite, with not a single grey hair in her coiffure. For that lady's sake he removed the red ribbon from his sleeve and hid the red-striped silk tie in the pocket of his suit. She took off her little blue dress for him and left the blue fillet in her hair, but he never objected. In fact he pardoned her for all the irksome habits she was in. He even put up with her endless stories about her several sons, and her nephews, the sons of her brother shot by the REDs, and her first husband's sons, and her second husband's...

"My youngest one," She said with pride, "Chucked his studies, gave up his work at the factory, even his baseball team, and ran away to the front. If you happen to meet him somewhere, be sure to send him my warmest regards!"

Spy nodded thoughtfully, shaking off the ashes from the tip of his cigarette into a little blue ashtray. At times he felt like a complete bastard for keeping this woman, not so intelligent yet still delighful, deceived for so many years.

His hands were just as quick as the flash of recognition inside his mind. He pulled out his revolver and sent a bullet through the middle of the Scout's forehead, right between the arched eyebrows, raised in disbelief, and then stroked the engraving on the Ambassador's handle, probably from force of habit.

"Well played, gentlemen. Victory," Spy announced with a smile slightly strained before his team members had a chance to unleash their fury. He then pointed at the lean body prostrate stiff on the ground, "Rest in peace, young Scout. You ran fast and died a virgin."

Soldier and Heavy gave out an eager horselaugh - well, at least they were not enraged. Spy released a small poisonous cloud from his lungs; at times he nearly regretted having feelings. Walking away from his fellow soldiers, he wondered what it was like to not know how bitter the victory could taste.


End file.
